His Whiskey
by RemusAndRomulus
Summary: Michael Locke was beginning to realize that Ziva was much like the whiskey he had taken to drinking; strong, intoxicating, and probably more than he could handle. Set during the episode "Recoil."
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Author's Note: This story is based on the episode "Recoil" (5x16). For those of you who may not have seen this episode or simply do not remember it in detail here is some background information. Ziva goes undercover and takes down a serial killer named Andrew Hoffman. After killing him she experiences significant emotional distress and becomes romantically involved with a suspect, Michael Locke. Locke's girlfriend Devon has been missing for a few weeks and the team suspects him of being Hoffman's accomplice. In the end it is revealed that Michael is completely innocent. I found him to be an intriguing character, and wanted to write a fic based on his point of view. He comes off as a bit of a jerk, but I think that in him Ziva saw someone who was as lost as she was at the time.**

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 1**

Michael Locke sat in the dimly lit Oyster Lounge bar nursing a Jack Daniel's and absentmindedly listening to the evening news. He had started coming to this bar with his girlfriend.

_No, ex-girlfriend,_ he corrected himself. The Oyster Lounge had been Devon's favorite after work watering hole, and he had a lot of fond memories of them drinking their work day away together here. Now he came here to drink _her _away.

Michael took a long drink from his glass and shuttered. It had been three weeks since she had walked out on him, three weeks and she hadn't called once. It had also been three weeks since he had started drinking whiskey. He shook himself out of his thoughts and looked around for the only woman who had come close to making him forget about Devon.

Gina was nothing like his ex, a pretty, girl-next-door type who didn't know the power she had had over him. No, Gina was different. A new regular, Gina had started talking to him a few weeks ago, seeming genuinely interested in listening to his stories, even when he had had a few too many drinks and started rambling about his broken heart. Michael had noticed the way that the other men looked at him after Devon had stormed out, but since Gina had started taking an interest in him he was reminded of how good it felt to be with the most beautiful woman in the room.

As he looked out among the other patrons he noticed that their attention was riveted on the television.

A cool, female voice was calmly announcing that Andrew Hoffman, a man he had seen here many times drinking gin at the other end of the bar, was a ruthless serial killer. His concern heightened as the details came out. Hoffman had been targeting Navy wives who had cheated on their husbands. Michael's thoughts sped towards Devon once again, she had been married to a Navy Seal. If Hoffman had gotten to her it would explain why she hadn't called. He lifted his glass to his lips and downed the rest of his whiskey, the burn and subsequent wooziness quelling his fears some.

Michael's eyes were drawn by a dark haired woman entering the room. He jumped off of his bar stool and hurried over to her, ready to surprise her with the shocking news about Andrew Hoffman. Only Gina didn't have the wide-eyed, fearful reaction he had hoped would get her home with him tonight. Instead she flashed him a badge, a gun, and told him that she was a federal agent who had been working undercover in order to apprehend Hoffman.

He had been a fool to think that a woman like her would actually be interested in him. Hadn't he learned that with Devon? Michael abandoned his seat at the bar for another whiskey and a dark corner table where he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. Hot, memory erasing liquid ran down his throat, but when he looked up she was there, looking at him with knowing eyes.

"May I join you?" Gina/Ziva asked him gently. Michael shrugged, cops usually did what they pleased anyway, she didn't need his permission. She sat down and edged closer than strictly necessary, he could smell her natural scent and a hint of floral shampoo. Maybe there was hope for him after all. Ziva asked him a few questions about Hoffman and showed him a picture of a woman he knew as Julie. Michael admitted that he had asked her about Devon and before he knew it he was expressing his concern that Hoffman might be connected to Devon's disappearance. Ziva sat listening carefully as she usually did, and he tried not to sound too pathetic. He quieted and looked at the woman sitting next to him, forgetting what he was talking about as he met her chocolate eyes.

"Did he do that?" Michael asked, suddenly noticing a deep scratch on Ziva's temple. He reached up to smooth a curl off of the wound. She seemed uncharacteristically shy all of a sudden, not saying anything but allowing him to run his fingers through her hair. Looking down at the gun she wore on her hip, Michael realized that Ziva was much like the whiskey he had taken to drinking; strong, intoxicating, and probably more than he could handle.

"Ziva," he muttered to his third whiskey long after she had left. Her real name sounded exotic and delicious on his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 2**

Ziva was already there when Michael arrived at the bar the next evening. A music video was on the TV over the bar and he watched as she tilted her head quizzically at the strange image on the screen, sucking down the last of her drink through a straw.

"Let me buy you the next one?" he asked over her shoulder as he approached. Ziva's expressive lips smiled at his greeting.

"You working?" Michael asked, not wanting to assume that she was there as Ziva and not her alter ego.

"No," she responded lightly. He raised an eyebrow.

"Uh huh..." He had to test her, make sure that she was there to relax and not to get him to confess to some kind of connection with Hoffman.

"No really, I'm not working, just—drinking. Heidi! Uno mas, s'il vous plait!" Michael laughed at her multi-lingual request.

"You're, uh, mixing your languages," he informed her.

"And my liquors," she said in a bittersweet tone.

"Not exactly the place to come if you're not on the case. There's a thousand bars in this town," he teased.

"I like the atmosphere—and Heidi makes one killer mojito," she said seriously. Michael noted that her spanish was perfect. He let out a breathy laugh.

"I thought maybe you took a shine to one of the patrons," he said, trying to draw a response from her. Ziva looked at him with eyes that knew his game. If she fell for his advances it would be of her own accord.

"And you?" she asked, choosing not to respond to his suggestion. "You are here no doubt, in search of Debbie?" Michael realized that she wasn't completely trusting of him either. She knew he was still hung up on his ex.

"Devon," he corrected her, although he suspected that she had gotten the name wrong on purpose.

"Potato, patato," she teased.

"Yeah well not searching—just drinking," he told her, knowing what she wanted to hear. Michael watched as Ziva's fiery eyes dipped down to his chest flirtatiously and then up again. She leaned in close to him and his eyes went wide. She wasn't usually the one to make advances. But instead of kissing him or playing with his tie, Ziva reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out that last thing that he wanted her to see; a picture of Devon. So he told Ziva about his ex, about her terrible sense of direction, her intelligence, her selflessness. The truth was that she was perfect, and he missed her with an intensity that bordered on pain.

"I'm not looking to get back with her," Michael lied. "I just want to know she's ok." Ziva didn't look fooled.

"I'm gonna help you," she said gently, silently letting him know that she knew about his stong, lingering feelings for Devon.

"You already have," he admitted, thinking about how fearful he would be right now if Hoffman were still on the loose.

"How so?" she asked.

"By killing Hoffman. He's one less nightmare." Michael watched as Ziva's eyes went distant. She sat unblinkingly, obviously recalling a troubling memory. He wondered how she had succeeded in killing a man who had taken so many lives. He wondered if she had been alone and frightened. He wondered if Devon were alone and... no. No, he wouldn't think about that now.

"You ok?" he asked trying to draw Ziva back to the real world. She started.

"Never better," she lied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 3**

Michael sat in front of an apartment building in his dark car, staring up at the window that he knew belonged to the third floor apartment, second room from the elevator. He knew that the door was labeled 3C with golden letters on an oak door. He knew that the walls were painted cream and that the room often smelled of the coffee that wafted up from the cafe on the first floor. He knew every inch of that apartment, from its smooth teak floors, to its chipped porcelain sink. He also knew that there was nothing left inside for him. The window was dark and Devon had always kept a light on, a warm light had shone out on to the street from behind vermilion curtains.

The harsh green glow from his car's dash board told him that it was 9:45. Michael turned the key in the ignition, thinking that he knew just what he needed to ease this aching pain.

He caught Ziva just as she was leaving the bar.

"Well I hope you weren't looking for me," Michael said with false bravado. Ziva looked tired tonight, but she played along.

"Is that really what you were hoping?" she asked sarcastically.

"Not even close," he replied truthfully. What he was hoping is that tonight, she could help him forget.

"You know, I could buy you a drink, or..." he tailed off.

"Or what?" she asked, although he suspected that she knew exactly what he was about to suggest.

"You could come home with me," he said. Michael hoped that his face remained composed; despite his bold offer he wasn't usually this forward with women, but Ziva was an exception. She laughed at his frank suggestion.

"Why would I do that?" Her tone was more playful now, and Michael relaxed a little.

"Because you feel guilty about lying to me," he said laughingly before deciding to take the plunge and play to her weakness. "Or because you just killed someone and you need someone to hug." The words sounded slightly ridiculous coming out of his mouth, but it had the desired effect.

"Why do I have the feeling that you are angling for more than just, a hug?" she asked.

"Angling no—hoping..." Michael trailed off and gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. He didn't know how well he would handle her rejection tonight if it came to that. Ziva's brown eyes narrowed slightly and she tilted her head, trying to size him up.

"Have you been telling me the truth about your girlfriend? Or are you just taking advantage of my—raw, emotional state?" she asked finally. Michael thought for a second. Was he telling the truth that he did not want to get back together with Devon? Absolutely not. But in this moment, his need was greater than his honor.

"Yes, and—yes," he answered, deciding that Ziva deserved to know the truth to at least one of her questions.

Michael could feel the mind numbing rush that her company always provided beginning as she slid into the passenger's seat of his car a few minutes later. He had driven to the bar without the radio on, and now he was acutely aware of the silence in the small, dark space. He listened to the sound of the tires gripping the road and glanced over at Ziva. Her hair fell over the left side of her face, effectively hiding her expression from him. The street lights cast a flickering orange light inside the car every few seconds, revealing her silhouette against the shiny glass of the window. The anticipation built as they neared their destination, and soon Michael could feel himself paying more attention to her than to the road.

By the time they arrived in front of his apartment, he had managed to clear his mind of Devon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 4**

Michael pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex and killed the engine. His heart rate had been increasing exponentially since he left the bar with Ziva, and now he felt the overwhelming urge to quell the thirst he had for her. He waited anxiously as she unbuckled her seat belt and then he leaned across the middle consul of his car and claimed her lips in a frantic kiss. His quick movement would have surprised any other woman, but not Ziva. She responded in kind, giving him the heat he so desperately needed. When they finally pulled away from each other he felt dizzy with the single minded goal to get her upstairs.

Michael unlocked the doors and stepped outside. The cool night air hit his feverish skin with a jolt. He could smell rain on the wind and feel the heavy energy that came before a storm. He pulled Ziva into the building, enjoying the foreign feeling of her calloused fingers on the back of his hand. As they rode the elevator up to his forth floor condo Michael took Ziva in his arms and kissed her neck, nipping at the creamy skin she bared to him.

"Michael," she warned quietly as the elevator came to a halt. He pulled away slowly, finding a sly smile on her lips that made him want to take her right there. Instead, he pulled the keys from his pocket and fit them into the lock to his door, smiling back at her as she leaded against the wall.

"Here we are," he said, turning on the lights in his condo. Warm light flooded the room, revealing a comfortable living room and small kitchen.

"Very nice," Ziva said in that infuriatingly sexy accent. She walked up to a picture of him and Devon that hung on the living room wall. There was no doubt in his mind that Ziva knew about his feelings for Devon.

"You look happy," she said simply. Michael couldn't detect resentment in her tone, and he wondered why she had agreed to come home with him unless she needed the escape as much as he did.

"I was happy," he said, glancing at the picture of him and Devon sitting in a pile of fall leaves and laughing at the camera. He put his arms against the wall on either side of Ziva and leaned into her back.

"But right now, all I can think about is you," Michael whispered in her ear. Ziva's eyes became impossibly darker as they met his. He used his right hand to reach across her shoulders and pull the riotous curls from her neck. He pressed his lips to the soft point behind her ear.

"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you," he admitted softly to her skin.

"You cannot possibly have been encouraged by me," Ziva answered, her head falling back on to his shoulder.

"Temptress," he accused.

Ziva turned to face him, her eyes sparkling and her lips rearranging themselves into what he had come to know as her teasing smile. Those chocolate eyes dared him to come closer. Michael licked his lips and pressed his forehead to hers, feeling his desire grow as she looked at him darkly. Ziva leaned forward until her lips were a breath away from his, drawing an unintentional moan from him; she looked satisfied at his reaction to her.

Michael could feel the last of his self-control slip away at the look on her face. He pushed her roughly against the wall and lifted her arms above her head, pinning her wrists together with one of his hands. Surging forwards, he attacked her mouth. She tasted like heat and promise and oblivion. He pulled her down the hallway and into his bedroom without relinquishing control of her lips. Michael let his fingers slip down the buttons of her shirt, tossing it to the corner of his bedroom. He groaned at what he saw and the rest of their clothes soon joined her shirt on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 5**

Sometime later, Michael lay in bed admiring the wild mane of curls that spilled across his pillows. She had been nothing like Devon, soft, sweet, and willing. No, Ziva had felt entirely different beneath his hands. He licked his lips in recollection of her smooth, tightly coiled muscles and demanding mouth.

Michael blinked in the dim light of the room and sat up in bed to look for his glasses which lay next to Ziva's gun on the nightstand. He could hear the rain beating down on the window pane, a sound he has always considered peaceful. He glanced down at Ziva, not wanting to wake her up by reaching across her for his glasses. He eased over her gently, his fingers close to their goal. A split second later Ziva had her gun pointed straight to his head, her free hand on his neck, pinning him against the mattress. She had thought he was reaching for her gun.

"Easy, easy," Michael pleaded with her. "Just reaching for my glasses." The sparkle in Ziva's eyes was gone, replaced by a hardened glare. He was reminded once again that she was no ordinary woman. Normal women did not have those kind of instincts. He raised his hands weakly in an expression of innocence.

"You should not do that to me," she said roughly, her breath short. Michael reached up and carefully pushed the gun away from his face. Ziva looked reluctant to put the gun down but she finally laid it back on the bedside table. Michael's heart beat wildly.

"Look—I do not usually do this kind of thing," she said. He wondered what exactly she was trying to explain to him.

"And neither do I," he replied, thinking that he very rarely slept with women he barely knew and had certainly never had a gun turned on him by one of them. His nervousness made him blurt out a question before he thought about it.

"Is that the gun you shot Hoffman with?" he asked out of morbid curiosity.

"No, we struggled and then I—no, its not the gun," she answered in a rush. Ziva's golden shoulders peaked out from underneath his comforter and her breath was still short from being startled awake. He was struck with the sudden urge to know more about this mysterious woman.

"So, uh, what's it like to shoot someone?" he asked her.

"It is what it is. It is what you have to do...These are not things I dwell upon," she answered with a small shake of her head. Michael nodded, noticing the way that she tried to convince herself. She lay back down heavily, as though troubled by her thoughts.

"Were you scared?" he asked, concerned. This time her eyes did not meet his when she answered.

"No," she said shortly.

"I'm sorry, that's a dumb question. I guess you wouldn't be an NCIS agent if you had a problem with it," he told her, believing her lie.

"I am not an NCIS agent," she said. Michael's brow furrowed in confusion. "I am Israeli Mossad." Ziva's voice softened at the end of her statement, as though afraid of what his reaction would be. Michael swallowed hard, seriously reconsidering if it were wise to have this woman in his bed. As a Mossad agent she would be highly trained and possibly highly deadly as well.

"I'm guessing Hoffman's not the first guy you've uh.." Michael started. Ziva spun around to look at him angrily before he could finish.

"Why does everyone think all Mossad agents are assassins?" she asked testily. Michael looked into her eyes, trying to read her.

"Are you?" he asked finally. Ziva blinked and narrowed her eyes but didn't answer. Michael took this as confirmation. His logical side screamed at him to get far away, but his daring took over, willing him closer to her. This is what he had asked for after all, someone different. He crept closer to that delectable pair of lips.

"You know, I've never handled a gun before," he smiled, thinking that although this was true, Ziva's volatile nature certainly qualified her as a pistol.

"Well you're not gonna handle one now," she admonished him playfully. God he wanted her.

"Well, I guess I'll just have to handle something else..." Michael leaned in close, delighting in the pretty laugh that his comment drew from her. He drank from her lips once again, pulling her into his arms and laying her against the mattress. He was beginning to realize that he could become very easily addicted to this woman, but a voice in the back of his head also warned him that he would quickly be in over his head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 6**

Michael awoke alone very early the next morning. He stumbled through his living room and into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee and noticed with some astonishment that Ziva had managed to exit his condo while keeping the door locked from the inside. He shook his head in groggy amazement and headed into the bathroom to take a hot shower. As his mind began to warm up, Michael thought about Ziva.

He doubted that last night had meant anything to her, but he hoped that his assumption was true. She was undeniably the most intriguing woman he had ever met, and quite possibly the most beautiful he would ever have the pleasure of sharing his bed with, but his conscious had been screaming that she was too much for him and now he knew that it was right. He was a normal guy, used to the typical American fantasy of sorority girls and prom queens. And Ziva...

Michael thought about the life she must have lead up to this point, all the things she must have seen, and he knew that he had no claim to her. This wasn't just about her being an assassin, this was about everything she was and the experiences that had made her. He thought about how weak he must seem in her eyes, a man lamenting the disappearance of a girlfriend, when she had undoubtedly buried loved ones and not only seen, but lived the horrors of war. Ziva was stronger than he would ever be, and it wounded his pride.

He remembered the feeling of being needed, of Devon clutching his hand in a scary movie, of offering her his jacket, of him telling other men to back off or else. It could never be that way with Ziva. Michael stepped out of the steam feeling confident of his decision.

He was surprised when she showed up at his office that afternoon, and asked if he could take his lunch break with her.

"You left early," he said casually as they drove.

"Yes, I—wanted to freshen up at my place before work," she said hurriedly. Michael glanced over at her, seeing dark circles under her eyes. Her complexion was rather pallid and her curls were in various states of mutiny. Freshen up indeed. Deciding silence was best in this case Michael continued to follow her directions to what he assumed was a restaurant.

"Listen, Ziva," he started, deciding that he had to confront her before they went too far.

"Right here," she said, cutting him off. She had brought then to an abandoned building covered in police tape. Michael blinked in confusion.

"What's this about?" he asked her angrily.

"This is where I...confronted Hoffman," she said quietly, not meeting his eyes. Ziva reached for the car door and stepped outside. Michael followed a few moments later, wondering why on earth she had brought him here.

When he entered he saw Ziva standing behind the crime scene tape, facing the back of the warehouse. She didn't turn when he came up behind her.

"You brought me here for a reason," he said, knowing that she wouldn't have brought him here on a whim.

"I need some answers," she replied, her gaze locked on a gate a few yards away. Michael ducked under the tape so that he could see her face. Her eyes were huge and unblinking.

"I though you said you wanted to put this behind you," he said recalling the way she had said it was best not to dwell on the necessity of killing. Ziva's phone rang loudly, cutting into the eerie stillness of the empty building. She silenced it without answering and started walking towards the gate she was staring at.

"I made a mistake," she admitted more to herself than to him. She kept walking.

"So what went wrong?" he asked. Clearly he had been wrong about her, she did need him for something. Maybe he could be the one to talk her through whatever was troubling her.

"I waited too long," she said darkly. "I should have moved faster." Michael could tell by her tone that Ziva was angry at herself. Her heeled shoes clicked loudly on the cement floor as she continued her path to the back of the building.

"Right about here,—there was nowhere left to go." He stayed a few paces behind, understanding that she had come here to relive the day she had taken down Hoffman. Michael could feel his blood run cold as Ziva described how he had held her at gunpoint against the metal bars of the gate. She had reacted more slowly than she would have liked, that was her big mistake. Hoffman's gun went off just fractions of an inch away from her head, the bullet grazing her temple.

Together they reenacted her ordeal, but something didn't make sense to him.

"I don't understand, why didn't you shoot him earlier?" he asked. She was a trained killer, how could she have allowed herself to be caught in such a compromising position?

"I was undercover, I didn't have my gun," she said, reaching down to her right hip to feel for her weapon. Michael watched as she contacted nothing but the fabric of her black jeans. Her eyes widened.

"Just like now," he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**His Whiskey**

**Chapter 7**

Ziva's phone went off again. He had wanted to tell her that it was ok, that she had made the move in time, that she was a hero for what she had done.

"What do you want Tony?" she asked the caller angrily. She listened for a moment. "His print is not a match...Well next time we should both listen to my instincts," she said before hanging up. Michael stared at her, realizing what she was talking about. She had suspected him all along.

"Was that about me?" he asked, praying that she would deny it. She didn't say a word. "Was this about me, still a suspect?" He had thought he was helping her for a change by coming here with her. He had thought that letting her go would not be so difficult after he had given something back.

"I never believed it," she said pleadingly. He could feel his anger welling up, but relief also. This had to end anyway.

"How'd you get my print?" he asked.

"You touched my gun," she answered shortly.

"So you took my finger print, ran it, I didn't match up and now you're telling me you never believed it was me?"

"Look, I tried to stop this. Ok? I'm sorry Michael," her voice changed at the end, softening. He could tell she meant it, he could hear the truth in her words, and if she were any other woman he would have taken her in his arms and told her that it was alright. It took everything he had to spit out what he knew came next.

"I wish I could believe you Ziva, Gina, whatever," He took a long last look at her and walked out. It was easier to hide behind this mask of anger than to admit what he had been going to tell her. Resentment was simpler than saying he was not man enough for her. Yes, he thought, better to go back to his search for soft, sweet Devon than have to cower at the feet of this lioness.

When he arrived home from work that night Michael headed to the liquor cabinet, thinking to erase that afternoon's memories. A half empty bottle of Jack sat obscenely alone in what was usually a well stocked bar. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and then paused. He sniffed the amber contents and shuddered. Putting the cap back on he threw it in the trash can. He had to stop drinking that stuff.

Michael grabbed his keys and headed to the Oyster Lounge, knowing that Ziva wouldn't be there tonight.

He was drinking a beer, relishing the light freshness of it after three weeks of whiskey when she walked in. She looked beautiful and healthy again, he admitted to himself. Maybe he had given her something after all.

"What do you want?" he said for appearances sake. She placed a small piece of paper down on the counter next to him.

"Telephone number," she said. "I found Devon." Michael's heart stopped beating. "I thought I owed you that much," she explained to him. She looked at him for a moment, but he couldn't speak.

"She wants to talk to you," Ziva said with a tiny smile before turning and walking away.

"Ziva," he called out, emotion spilling into his voice. She turned to face him. "Thanks," he managed. She nodded in acknowledgement and left forever.

She masked her hurt too easily, he thought. He had been cruel to her, and a lesser woman would have never thought to do what she had just done. He thought about what her reaction would be if he ran after her and kissed her one last time. Instead, Michael watched her walk away, the smooth, powerful roll of her hips reminding him once more why she deserved a much better man than he.

He picked up the piece of paper and dialed the numbers, his hands shaking.

"Hello?" came that soft voice.


End file.
